


love is a flower

by areskoo



Category: ATEEZ (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fantasy, Flower Shop Owner Yeosang, Fluff and Angst, Historical Fantasy, Jung Wooyoung is Whipped, Light Angst, Love Potion/Spell, M/M, Shy Kang Yeosang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-12 18:48:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29015373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/areskoo/pseuds/areskoo
Summary: For Yeosang, temperate afternoons consist of arranging bouquets of multicoloured structures and placing them inside vases either transparent or designed from marble, yet for Wooyoung, they consist of soft commentary thrown his way from the pretty flower owner.Yet everything changes for both of them when Wooyoung accidentally drinks a love potion one evening, his feelings for the elder exaggerated comically and exposed to Yeosang, who has to tend after him for five days.Alternatively, your local happy-go-lucky flower shop owner and his lovely delivery man who’s infatuated with him fic with a twist.
Relationships: Jung Wooyoung/Kang Yeosang
Kudos: 43





	love is a flower

**Author's Note:**

> i've been meaning to write a flower shop au for quite a while now, so here it is.  
> 10k of me and my endearment for woosang's dynamic!
> 
> songs that work well!
> 
> [love is a flower by colde](https://open.spotify.com/track/3pT776bUK2TFgDmVz82KJ9?si=xCgykQMLTUKKNF2n7j0nUg)  
> [scent by colde](https://open.spotify.com/track/2SrK72ytNt8wIh6R5pZ1nq?si=7EY2vUF4TtWs-6OlewRdUg) (basically the whole love part 1 album)  
> [something to feel by mac ayres](https://open.spotify.com/track/1IRELSd0k5ycjtvPUlUEXI?si=JP1V4YFQRaWaD3bDVEv3mg)  
> and lastly! [with u by ateez](https://open.spotify.com/track/3gYFXFPdWslCNtZcO4GEdy?si=PIuapl8uTdukeiiNKw0log)

♡ 

For Yeosang, temperate afternoons consist of arranging bouquets of multicoloured structures and placing them inside vases either transparent or designed from marble, yet for Wooyoung, they consist of soft commentary thrown his way from the pretty flower owner.

Yeosang, the flower shop owner, would always adorn a beam on his delicate features, eyes withholding carefully crafted sunflower bouquets paired with the shimmers of lilies in the centre. Voice capturing your attention instantly with its mellowly low tone, or how his laugh bubbles out of him gingerly yet bounces off the walls of the setting, Yeosang is Wooyoung’s source of happiness every afternoon.

It has been around seven months since Wooyoung had found the advertisement promoting a job application for Yeosang’s shop, and even though this is his back-up employment plan after freshly graduating university, he has opted to keep his job at the Aurora flower shop on bi-weekly Saturdays and Sundays whenever he is not called in for his internship at his dream gaming company.

Sure, driving bouquets around Seoul and its periphery is sweet and all, but hearing the dulcet dialect belonging to a certain Kang Yeosang enunciate any syllables uttered and contrasting his trademark Ilsan one is worth sacrificing his weekends over.

Yeosang isn’t one to give him too much work. There are a few destinations to which he had to get his designated van at by a specific time, yet Wooyoung enjoys driving and doesn’t mind lingering outside the setting for a few moments, eyes enraptured by the vision of the flower shop owner slowly making his way across his shop.

It is even more endearing when Wooyoung arrives back to the flower shop and sits around watching Yeosang sing along to a particularly favourite melody, already familiar with the lyrics and the slow tempo of the lullaby he greatly enjoys. Yeosang had once told him that his degree was in music theory, yet the flower shop business was a family one that he inherited at the time of his graduation.

“Aren’t you gutted by the fact that you cannot sing?” Wooyoung remembered asking, surprised when the elder contemplated his answer and shook his head firmly.

“I like the business. It’s nothing like a corporate business, or something in the office like your full-time job, yet the shop is nice. It has memories.”

Yeosang had continued with, “it would be nice if I could sing to a greater audience than you and these flowers,” Wooyoung had laughed at this, “but I know that I will in the future. I once made myself a promise and I’ll fulfil it. This isn’t the right time, though, and that’s okay. There will be one day when everything will go to plan.”

Ever since then, Wooyoung has viewed the flower shop owner in a different perspective. He has always liked the elder, yet when his words imprinted themselves in his brain and his heart filled with warmth, his liking only furthered itself and expanded, overtaking his thoughts, and making him feel different.

On this particular eventide, Yeosang’s eyes sparkle amongst the dim lighting of the flower shop as he converses with Wooyoung, the younger’s attention fully on him.

“Don’t you think these are pretty, Wooyoung?” Yeosang questions, lifting the stems of some daisies gingerly.

Wooyoung looks at them, giving a slow yet genuine nod. “Yes. They are.”

Satisfied, the elder resorts to tying them together with a blue string, tongue poking out of his lips amidst his moment of concentration. Wooyoung finds him so pretty in moments like these, surrounded by flowers and fulfilled with a gentle happiness Wooyoung finds so mesmerising, nothing but them two and the echo of soft melodies resonating from the radio in the flower shop.

It was getting late, yet Wooyoung doesn’t mind staying overtime. His tummy, however, lets out a noise, a simple subdued sound like this enough to capture the elder’s focus, and Yeosang turns to him with concerned eyes. “Did you not eat today?”

Embarrassed, Wooyoung scratches his neck, eyes meeting the floor. “No… I had some breakfast but there was too much traffic for me to stop at the usual café I go to for lunch.”

“You should’ve told me!” Yeosang scolds gently. Wooyoung feels the wave of guilt rush over him when the elder regards him with the honeyed worry in his brown spheres of vision, but a shy smile also tugs at his lips when Yeosang discards off his apron and flowers and catches his hand in his. “Let me make you something.”

“I’m a better cook than you.” Wooyoung teases cheekily, laughing at Yeosang’s deadpan look boisterously.

“Fine. You make something. I’ll just sit down here and watch.” Yeosang points to the bar in the staff kitchen. Wooyoung ruffles a hand through his hair as he strolls to the cupboards and looks for food.

“I’ll make you some ramen.”

Yeosang simply nods nonchalantly, taking his phone out of his pocket, and scrolling on it with no real interest, eyes flicking upwards and downwards onto the digital screen.

Wooyoung focuses his whole attention on cooking, sleeves pulled up all the way to his forearms and folded neatly, the man mixing the noodles in the pan with ease. Stirring the noodles in with a newfound patience, he steals a glance at the elder whose eyes are by no longer focused on his phone, but rather on him, analysing his every move intently. It is a sight which takes Wooyoung by surprise, enough to want to ask the reason why Yeosang’s so focused on him, but the latter speaks first.

“How-” He starts and Wooyoung hums confusedly in a way to acknowledge him.

“Hm?”

“How are you so… so good at everything?”

Wooyoung momentarily pauses from stirring, hand freezing mid-air. After a second or so, his shoulders relax, and a chuckle – pleased and joyful – escapes his lips. “Well… that’s nice of you, Yeosang.”

“You are though!” The elder exclaims, which is even more surprising to Wooyoung. Sure, Yeosang is a lovely person whose energy is so radiant at times, yet to Wooyoung it is just a pleasant surprise to be spoiled with genuine compliments like so. “Not only are you good at bouquet deliveries, but you’re an amazing dancer, and now you can cook too?”

Wooyoung thinks of the countless times Yeosang had seen him dance in the reception room, redoing particular familiar moves amidst the collection of varying vases to the beat of the melody either playing on the radio or within his earphones.

Shy, he lets out a: “it’s just ramen, lovely.”

“Admit it,” Yeosang lets out an exaggerated sigh, the sudden nickname seeming to flare up his cheeks and rose them slightly in the warm light of the host’s, “you’re good at everything.”

“I’m not.” Wooyoung mumbles, his typical overzealous tone overtaken by timidity.

“You are.”

“I’m not.”

Yeosang only sighs once more before: “I’ll let you realise it on your own then.”

Wooyoung shakes his head fondly in response, allowing a comfortable silence to take over the kitchen. A few minutes pass, the sizzling of the noodles echoing dully in the distance and signalling they were ready for consumption. He switches the stove off, taking a chopping board and placing the ramen pot atop.

“Here you go,” he speaks softly, going back to the drawers to collect some disposable chopsticks for the elder. He takes some for himself also, then comes back. “Do you want a bowl?”

“No, it’s fine.” Yeosang assures, waving his hand in the air. “I’ll just eat from the pot.”

The younger male lets out a smile and returns back to the bar, taking a seat across the elder. He gives him the chopsticks and dives in, taking a moment to watch as Yeosang holds the noodles in the air to cool them up slightly before taking a bite.

Wooyoung does the same, humming loudly when he gets a taste the flavourful noodles. “How did I do?”

“They’re really nice.” Yeosang replies. Once again, a comfortable silence settles within the room, both of them eating their noodles gently, however when Wooyoung looks up at the elder, he pauses for a second.

It was somewhat – incredibly – mesmerising to look into Yeosang’s eyes when he smiled. Wooyoung loses himself in the waves of the ocean of kindness, tinted hazel, where constellations of renowned stars reflected in the vortex of each iris. They crinkle at the edges, lifting the form upwards, and with it blooms a happiness so pure and unhidden.

Wooyoung wants to hug him.

As Wooyoung ate, however, Yeosang takes some secretive glances to check upon the younger, smiling to himself each time he saw Wooyoung gulping his noodles down hastily. He goes unnoticed by the younger every time he shakes his head fondly, lips tugged upwards in a smile that he attempts to hide. It is only when Wooyoung lifts his bowl up from the table, and lifts himself from the chair, that Yeosang’s eyes widen in surprise, but Wooyoung quickly assures him of what he’s about to do.

“I’m just going to put some salt in the noodles.”

Letting out a sigh of relief, Yeosang nods, retrieving back to eating – calmly, unlike Wooyoung. Puzzled, Wooyoung browses the cupboards, looking for some sort of salt container. Soon enough, something captures his attention. It is composed of noir plastic and is relatively small. Small enough that it makes him wonder what it held inside.

Wooyoung examines the object, bringing it close to his eyes, yet it was to no avail. Nothing was visible through the plastic, but the sound of movement was barely audible through it. Confused, he lifts it once more, blinking a few times in an attempt to clear his vision, yet nothing.

“Wooyoung?” A voice calls from the table, and the container wobbles slightly in his hands but Wooyoung quickly catches it once more. Something glimmers from within it this time, and Wooyoung places it in his pocket before opening more cupboards.

“I was looking for the salt.” He says when he gets back to the table, bowl in one hand and the salt container in the other.

Yeosang hums, giving a half-hearted shrug before looking back down at his noodles with a glimmering star of contempt in his eyes.

The phial feels heavy in Wooyoung’s pocket, yet he doesn’t take it out for the rest of the evening.

Wooyoung is late to the flower shop.

Typically, this isn’t a problem. Seoul, after all, suffers from the congestion of vehicles. So much so that Wooyoung is late to his afternoon shift most of the time. So, by now, Yeosang is already accustomed to waiting for the younger to arrive.

However, Wooyoung is never an hour late.

As the minutes roll off the clock’s axis tediously, Yeosang’s worry only grows. There is no sight of the lovable yet strong delivery man walking from the distance and approaching the flower shop, nor any movement of the van parked at the corner of the building. No echo of a bubbly laugh, or a subdued yet shy ‘good afternoon’.

Worrying.

When he grows exhausted of waiting, Yeosang grasps hold of the shop’s vintage, ivory-beige telephone, pressing in the digits of the number he has grown so familiar to calling over the course of the last couple of months. Dull buzzing resonates within his ear, fading into the distance.

No response.

Now, this is even more worrisome. Wooyoung’s phone is always on ring mode whenever he arrives at the store, connected to his earphones. Yeosang decides to not wait anymore. Collecting his coat from the peg, he emerges out of the shop hastily, stumbling his way to his vehicle.

Luckily, Wooyoung’s studio apartment isn’t too far from the shop. And luckily, there isn't not too much traffic on the boulevards Yeosang has to drive through in order to reach it, and he finds himself successfully parking his car in around fifteen minutes since leaving his shop. Shaky exhales leave his lips when he turns the engine off, panic ripping through his usual joy and dispersing itself through his organism at a frightening rate.

Yeosang rushes up the stairs, avoiding the elevator queue as he skips over two stairs at the time. Ignoring the weird looks he gets from random people leaving their residences, Yeosang exhales loudly upon reaching Wooyoung’s floor. He trudges up to the mahogany toned door, hand raising mid-air to knock on the firm structure.

One quiet knock turns into seven loud ones, for there is no response coming from his delivery man in the slightest.

Yeosang’s right foot begins moving anxiously upon the flooring of the corridor of the complex, but alas he hears a shift of movement coming within the household. Hurriedly, he places his ear against the door, examining for another sound.

_Footsteps._

They get louder over the next couple of seconds, and when the door creaks open, Yeosang is immediately met with a muscular silhouette fragranced with musk cologne and a faint shampoo scent effervescing from the scalp. _Wooyoung_.

Relieved, Yeosang is about to scold the younger, but when he takes a proper look at the ebony eyes focused on him, Yeosang immediately knows something is wrong. Firstly, they are tinted crimson and grey, pupils dilated in a way that concerns the flower shop owner. Secondly, his blinking is slow; his gaze is unmoving, not shifting away from the older man’s face in the slightest. No words escape his lips, and his cheeks are slightly pallid, the edges of the moon reflecting amidst them, even though it is midday.

No words are shared between the two, until at last, Wooyoung pushes the door open and stepped aside. “Come in.”

His voice sounds uncharacteristically altered, so much so that Yeosang gets off-put in that moment. The change in tone completely throws Yeosang off, his lips pursing in concern. Wooyoung also looks extremely exhausted – a hand placed onto his right cheek as if checking his own temperature – making Yeosang even more concerned. His tension only grows as he is welcomed into the apartment in utter silence. Hesitantly taking his shoes off, Yeosang realises he needs to quickly find the reason of Wooyoung’s odd behaviour.

“Why weren’t you at work today?” Yeosang asks, a frown making its way onto his features. “You were meant to come at the flower shop almost-” he pauses to quickly check his watch, “two hours ago.”

Wooyoung doesn’t react. His facial expression is blank save for the hand permanently stuck to his cheeks, and Yeosang doesn’t notice this, but his grip on his phone tightens as he ponders over a response. “I-It’s Saturday.”

“And?”

“T-This is my day off.”

Yeosang notices Wooyoung’s stutter but doesn’t comment on it. Then, he takes a moment to ponder on Wooyoung’s words and realised. “You’re not meant to be at work, are you?”

Wooyoung shakes his head. The movement, however, is slow and subdued, exhaustion flowing from his body relentlessly. His hand reaches to tug at Yeosang’s wrist. Shocked by the seldom touch, Yeosang’s body stills, eyes flickering between the fingers which are holding his wrist and the tired orbs of the man ahead of him.

Their eyes meet. Once more. Yeosang gulps. Wooyoung replicates the action, blinking one time, then twice, before his palms magnetise themselves to the elder’s hips gingerly. The touch is so comforting yet surprising, rendering the both of them speechless. (Not like they weren’t in the first place. Neither had said a single word in the last five minutes.)

“Is there anything wrong, Wooyoung? You don’t…” Yeosang trails unsurely, eyes falling from Wooyoung’s to look at the floor rather thoughtfully, “you don’t seem okay.”

“Yeosang, I…”

Wooyoung falters, his grip onto Yeosang’s hips loosening as he blinks once. Eyes closing for a moment, he looks deep in thought, almost lost in the memories which are unknown to the elder. Yeosang takes a step back from him, giving him some space that he seems to _need._

A few moments pass, his heart pulsing faster, fuelled to accelerate more and more by the exponential concern Yeosang possesses. Until Wooyoung takes something out from his pocket, holding it mid-air.

Yeosang blanks, eyes widening and shoulders stilling in shock. “How… how did you find that?”

Silence. A moment trails with no words shared, in which Yeosang moves himself slightly to look straight into his deliveryman’s eyes. Flabbergasted, his voice raises about two tones when he murmurs: “Wooyoung. _Why_ are you holding that?”

Wooyoung looks away, yet it is obvious that the grip he has onto the phial tightens. “I… I found it in your cupboard last night. At first, I thought it was salt or something… a type of seasoning. But when I couldn’t actually discover what it was, I thought I should examine it some more. I took it home.”

Yeosang’s mind goes blank. Then, he begins laughing. Then, in the span of literal milliseconds, his frown deepens. Through his sudden shifts of mood, Wooyoung only regards him with a perplexed look, completely complexed by the man’s behaviour.

“Yeosang?”

Yeosang is in utter disbelief. His mind is blank save for the fact that Wooyoung is holding _that_ phial, yet no words threaten to surface past the bridge of his tongue. There is nothing much to say.

He gives the perplexed man in front of him one more disbelieving look, fingers reaching to take hold of the phial his attention was entirely focused on. Wooyoung gives it to him regardless of the hesitation slipping through his movements in the form of sea waves, he too unable to look at anything else except the phial.

“Did you…” Yeosang begins when he believes himself relatively strong enough to speak up, a smile almost slipping through his emotionless façade at the way the younger startles but looks at him anyways, “did you open this?”

Despite giving no auditory answer, the way Wooyoung stills as soon as Yeosang finishes murmuring his question gives the elder a rough idea of what exactly had happened.

Wooyoung opened it.

“We have got to get to my apartment. Now.”

When Wooyoung first discovers the identity of the substance in the phial, his mind goes void of any thoughts.

It turns out that the substance in question – composed of small crystals reminiscent of typical salt, but _not quite – is_ indeed used for other purposes. A love potion, to be exact.

He spends the rest of his Friday evening simply studying every molecule of the substance he could find, fingers typing at an infuriated speed on his laptop keyboard in search for mythical beliefs and theories as to what this could actually be.

At last, after hours of unsuccessfully searching the depths of Google and other random Internet browsers, he comes across this hidden forum on the sixth-hundred and seventy-fourth page of the search _ancient witch potions_.

_“ Slip and Love, a potion believed to be created by an anonymous witch in the 1800s, contains mountainous minerals which allude a human to their true love. An ancient potion like this could potentially have very strong side effects due to the rarity of the crystals and how finely they age across the years._

_Slip and Love is believed to have been used for a total of two times and is currently in the possession of an unknown source. Details of this person’s identity are also unknown. Therefore no one is aware of whether they are an unaware human holding this in their cellar or a hidden witch keeping this in their cupboard.” _

“How do you _even_ have this in your apartment, Yeosang?” Wooyoung shrieks. Yeosang gestures at him to calm down, index pressing against his own lips to shush him.

“You see…” the elder trails unsurely, choosing to place the phial back in his cupboard, “My mother gave it to me when I was younger. She said I should keep it safe for some reason.”

Silence envelops around the pair whilst Yeosang closes the cupboard door, the man turning around to rest his back against the kitchen counters, palms gripping the sturdy base with a tightness so strong that his knuckles whiten.

Wooyoung processes the explanation with furrowed eyebrows, concluding that although it _does_ … indeed… make sense, there is something Yeosang isn't telling him. Was Yeosang’s mother the witch? Was it one of their ancestors? Pensively, he slowly walks up to Yeosang and rests his head on his shoulder, the physical display for affection evidently making the elder startle, but he slowly relaxes and melds into the touch, the action reminiscent of a tide brushing against the golden sand of a vacant beach.

Despite feeling every emotion except happiness, within that moment, Wooyoung allows himself to momentarily smile. Even though the beam is tiny and almost invisible to see, it feels genuine.

Rather hesitantly, Yeosang’s hand slowly raises to caress his hair, playing with the hairs for a few moments before letting go. They never shared these subtle yet heartfelt moments of affection with one another before, however Wooyoung gives himself a moment to relish in the soothing feeling of Yeosang’s body against his.

It doesn’t matter how much he currently knows. What does matter, however, is the way the elder’s ebony eyes are now tainted with something akin to remorse within their sharp edges. Wooyoung doesn't comment, but the words from the forum reflects in his mind continuously.

_Currently in the possession of an unknown source._

_No one is aware of whether they are an unaware human holding this in their cellar or a hidden witch keeping this in their cupboard._

Wooyoung gulps. Whatever Yeosang is hiding – it is already obvious there is something the elder is omitting, instead pushing forward the theory regarding the flower growth – is not good. Not in the slightest.

Unsurprisingly, Yeosang takes him to the flower shop afterwards.

It was late in the afternoon, yet the dulcet fragrance of several petals of different forms eases some of Wooyoung’s existing sleepiness away. As per usual, the shop is prettily ornated with bouquets created by the equally dashing owner, and Wooyoung sits himself on the couch opposite the till, admiring.

With the concerns regarding the love potion slowly settling themselves in his system, everything is ten times more intense. As if taken straight out of a romance webtoon, Yeosang’s appearance is littered with sparkles of light, eyes blossoming with constellations only astronomers and those passionate with the art of the telescope are familiar with. Cheeks kissed by honeyed dreams, his smile prospers upon his lips easily, hands bringing together multiple flower types. The owner hums out a melody cheerfully, the overall sight mesmerising to Wooyoung.

(Well, at least this hasn’t changed too much.)

Still a bit dizzied by the potion’s effects, he feels unable to lift himself up, therefore he just opts to speak instead. “Is it okay if you help me deliver these for a while? The potion… it makes me feel a bit nauseous.”

“You don’t even have to ask. I wouldn’t have allowed you by yourself anyways.” Yeosang responds, sparing a tiny glance his way before resuming on making the garland. Wooyoung simply nods, feet kicking the air out of boredom.

Whilst Yeosang gets all the stuff ready, he chooses to play a few games on his phone. Distracted by guiding the character to the destination, he doesn’t notice the person walking up to him slowly, an apple in their hands.

“Open this for me, will you?” Yeosang asks, startling the younger. He complies, regardless, opening the bottle cap with little to no effort, enjoying the satisfied sound Yeosang lets out as a reaction. “Thanks.”

Yeosang then goes back to tidy his belongings, eating some fruits simultaneously. Wooyoung cannot help but get himself off the couch, collecting the boxes he has to put in his vehicle with shaky hands. “Do you want me to take that?”

“N-No,” he lets out, immediately growing flustered for some reason. _The potion, of course._ “I’ll be fine.”

Yeosang simply shrugs in response, but his eyes remain magnetised to Wooyoung’s figure, thoughtfully analysing his every move. It simply makes the younger feel even more flushed, his grip on the boxes tightening to distract himself from the starry eyes lingering on him. He manages to take the boxes to the van without tripping, even shocking himself.

“It seems you can still do normal tasks.” Yeosang says, head falling on Wooyoung’s shoulder casually. “We have to be careful though. You might do some uncharacteristic things when the effects grow stronger.”

Wooyoung listens carefully, but his mind contemplates on these things. First of all, he hasn’t been acting too different to usual. Sure, he’s far bolder than previously, yet that’s the only thing different. Perhaps because it’s only been around one night since the dinner, but he’s not experiencing a shocking aftermath otherwise.

He has to wait.

“I’ll drive. You sit there.” Yeosang points to the passenger seat from outside. They walk to the van, entering it with hesitant hearts. The flower shop owner lets out a soft sigh, hand reaching to grasp one of Wooyoung’s. _Affectionate as always._ It doesn’t mean that Wooyoung’s heart doesn’t stutter helplessly against his ribcage, little goose bumps trailing alongside his forearms. “You’ll be okay, Wooyoung. I will find a way to make you better.”

_I don’t want to, though._

“Okay.”

“Everything will be okay. I promise.”

_Will it, though? You feel nothing for me._

“I know.” He replies softly. Yeosang starts the engine, giving him a reassuring smile before letting his hand go. In his hold, there’s a promise that Wooyoung doesn’t trust, not because of Yeosang, but because he knows this love potion has permanently left him scarred in a way he hadn’t expected.

It might not be Yeosang burdened by the sudden rushes of affection, but himself. Because he knows he’ll get accustomed to this and letting go of such memories already hurts him.

It hasn’t even started yet.

Each bouquet holds a different meaning to Yeosang.

Whether it’s pure and innocuous and its main colour scheme is white, or it’s prospering with hope and optimism, he ensures to tell a different story through the type of flower he carefully selects. Wooyoung doesn’t see the selection process too much, but now that Yeosang has to accompany him everywhere, it’s clear how much flower picking relaxes and brightens the owner’s mood.

They’re situated in Yeosang’s greenhouse currently, the closed space comprised of glass fulfilled from beginning to end with different sorts of flowers, every colour existing in the universe probably co-habiting peacefully in this environment. Nothing except the echo of footsteps and Yeosang’s delighted hums resonate through the space, but Wooyoung is quite happy with that. He prefers the peace of just hanging out with Yeosang over anything else.

It’s the next morning, and they’re checking up on the elder’s crops. The delivery had gone well, the two of them focusing on getting everything to their given destinations before calling it a day and parting ways. It was even therapeutic, and Wooyoung doesn’t understand the effects of this love potion.

Typically, in films and the semantic field of liberal art, it causes them to act completely different and infatuated with the other protagonist in the story. Wooyoung is aware of being his own protagonist in the story of his life, however it feels like he is a side persona watching from afar, for this love potion is not changing any aspects about himself.

As the minutes pass slowly, tangoing each other mellowly, his confusion only deepens, leaving him attempt to resurrect his own happiness through the sea of emotions of his pneuma. Nothing but the sight of Yeosang finishing his flower check-up, or the sight of his lovely smile directed at Wooyoung, or how their hands interlink, and they abandon the greenhouse together… nothing but such is able to reassure him that perhaps, everything won’t go as he thinks it would.

To Wooyoung, Yeosang is a silhouette of kindness and everything good. Of course, he’s not perfect. He, too, is littered with small flaws as every human is, however that’s what causes him to adore the shop owner even more. For Yeosang exudes a happy-go-lucky attitude whenever something is thrown his way, managing to find a solution to whatever life encompasses him, and Wooyoung admires that.

Perhaps, the side persona Wooyoung believes himself to be will be growing into a protagonist by Yeosang’s side, an extra and a character of his own sharing this universe where no one is enough to rule. Everyone is a protagonist in their own way, following a forever changing compass of options, but this love potion incident is enough to make Wooyoung realise that his feelings have been put behind a gate of fear.

And if boldness is a way to express himself, he will take advantage of it to show Yeosang what he’s been feeling all this time. He just wonders how the elder will react.

“I’m confused,” he confesses as soon as they’re back in the flower shop.

“About what?” Yeosang questions, sitting alongside him on the couch.

“Shouldn’t something happen by now?” Wooyoung asks.

It’s peculiar. It really is. And Yeosang seems to think the same, for he sighs gently, gazing far into the distance as he contemplates his answer. “It probably should’ve. It’s not meant to last for long, either. My mother says it should take five days for it to wear off.”

Wooyoung blanches. “Five days?”

“Approximately.” Yeosang confirms. “Seeing as it’s quite an old potion, our bodies react in a different way to it than the modernised ones. Not harmful or anything – thankfully – but we have evolved since the 1800s. Therefore, the effects wear off quicker.”

“B-But… wouldn’t it depend on the person? We have different metabolisms and such.”

Yeosang laughs incredulously, hand reaching to caress the younger’s hair soothingly. “I don’t think many people have _had_ this before you, love. After all, the phial was full when you found it.”

Even Wooyoung lets out a tiny chuckle at the reply, the two’s differing laughs filling the reception of the flower shop joyously. Even this is enough to capture his attention, eyes magnetised to the way Yeosang flushes when he laughs. His cheeks flame with happiness, head tilting back and hands clapping together.

“I guess it’s working.”

“W-What?” He questions, coming back to reality to find Yeosang’s eyes settled on him.

“You were staring. For a while.” Yeosang states softly.

“Oh no, that’s-” Wooyoung pauses. In theory, how does he explain that this has happened multiple times previously, and it’s not just a side effect of the potion? There’s no way to really explain it. so, he goes along with it for his sake. “I guess so.”

Yeosang doesn’t look convinced by his response but doesn’t comment further. His eyes adapt a thoughtful look, fixing themselves on the ivory rug underneath the sofa, the one which holds the coffee table’s sinking legs. “I think the effects might start to show up tomorrow.”

Gulping dryly, the younger nods. He plays with the cotton fabric of his shirt, beginning to quietly recite a song he loves. Yeosang’s head turns to him, intently listening, and Wooyoung continues to sing, albeit abashedly.

“You’ve always had a beautiful voice, Wooyoung.” The elder says quietly, taking Wooyoung by surprise. He turns, blinking repeatedly, and Yeosang continues talking. “I don’t know, there’s something about it… It’s like you’re made for singing.”

Rendered speechless by the compliment, he’s unsure of what to say. It’s silent for a few seconds, in which Yeosang manages to get him to rest his head on his shoulder. A prolonged sigh resonates from the elder, and eventually: “There is a possibility that you’re going to forget these moments after the potion wears off. I – I don’t want that.”

“Me neither.” He confesses, voice trailing off in the form of a quiet mumble. Yeosang still hears it.

“It hasn’t affected you a lot but… what will we do when it truly settles in your system? I don’t know what to do, love. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I think,” he drawly sadly, “I will be hurt, no matter the outcome.”

“I will try my best to stop that from happening. I promise.”

And this time… this time, Wooyoung believes him.

Next morning ensues, and just as Yeosang had predicted, Wooyoung feels significantly more light-headed compared to the previous day.

He can barely hold himself upright from the nausea, having to hold objects which are in his way to get to the bathroom. As he brushes his teeth, his body gaining a bit more strength the longer he’s awake, Wooyoung takes some time to think. He thinks of everything – the love potion, his feelings from before, but also the possible scenarios that could occur tonight. Sure, it’s his Sunday off, however Yeosang had encouraged him to take the week off from his other workplace so they can resolve the love potion crisis together.

_Together._

A simple word holding so much compassion is enough to make him overthink everything. After all, the love potion within him causes all of his emotion levels to skyrocket immediately, its speed almost rivalling the one of light. Yeosang comes up in his mind just as he finishes brushing his teeth, his words echoing through Wooyoung’s head incessantly:

_I don’t want to hurt you._

Wooyoung wonders what Yeosang’s thoughts regarding this entire situation are. Despite his endless help, the elder hasn’t let too much of his personal opinion on the matter actually show, instead choosing to make Wooyoung feel better at any given time.

_I don’t want to hurt you._

Yeosang is sweet like honey. Like the nectar of the plants immersed in this love potion. He’s kind and caring, affectionate in an opposing way to Wooyoung’s distaste of touching. And this caring side of himself is omnipresent in this situation.

But Wooyoung wants to know.

He wants to know whether the elder is exhausted – surely, he is – but at the same time, he wonders why Yeosang is being so kind. This situation is something so inexplicably ridiculous, yet the knowledge the elder possesses of the effects puts some questioning thoughts in Wooyoung’s mind. He wonders if there’s something the elder is hiding from him, if this particular potion was made by Yeosang’s ancestors or if it genuinely was just a love potion Yeosang’s mother had stumbled across and told her son to keep safe. For the flower shop is also filled with multiple manuscripts Yeosang doesn’t go into detail about.

_“Ah, and don’t touch those manuscripts,” Yeosang had told him on the first day of working at the shop, and whilst Wooyoung had wondered the context of those books resting gingerly upon the wooden bookshelves in the staffroom, he had been complacent to simply listen to the flower shop owner’s instructions._

Now that he ponders on it, he has never read the titles of those books. They were never in his direct field of vision, and his curiosity had never been sparked by the ancient covers to go and check.

With a newfound determination on discovering what that bookshelf truly hid, Wooyoung musters all of the strength his body has – which is currently not too much since the exhaustion the love potion within him is causing is increasing – and sets off to the shop.

There’s something Yeosang’s hiding.

And Wooyoung is unsure of how to feel about it.

If Yeosang notices his doubtful manner, he doesn’t comment about it.

When Wooyoung enters the flower shop, Yeosang just gives him a wry smile. It’s unlike his usual ones – which just express an overload of happiness Wooyoung is utterly envious of – but there’s also some evident dark circles underneath his sparkling eyes. _Has he not slept?_

“You’re here.” Yeosang states, voice holding the tiniest tinge of sympathy within it. Wooyoung just gives him a simple nod instead of a verbal confirmation, but the elder doesn’t seem to mind too much. “How are you feeling? Is your head hurting? What about your chest?”

“I’m fine.”

“Are you sure? What about –”

“Yeosang.” Wooyoung interrupts pointedly, the elder’s lips pausing from muttering the finishing words of his sentence. Yeosang presses his lips together after, giving the younger a look but not saying anything else. Clearly, he’s waiting for the delivery man to say something.

“Why are you so nervous?” Wooyoung questions slyly, choosing to curve around the subject instead of directly pushing past Yeosang and storming inside the staffroom to grab those manuscripts. Yeosang looks upwards, defiant eyes meeting his with a sea of conflicted emotions flowing languidly within them.

He’s never looked this nervous before.

Granted, Wooyoung had never swallowed the contents of a love potion before, so it was understandable that the elder behaved in such a peculiar way. Regardless, nervousness was such a weird concept on someone who seemed to know everything and someone whose cheeks were vibrant with lilac cherry blossoms.

It begins worrying Wooyoung when Yeosang doesn’t say anything, his right-hand extending outwards, as if pointing to something. His eyes trail to the direction in which the arm is pointing, lips parting in shock when it shows the door of the staffroom. In surprise, he lets out a disbelieving laugh, which the elder does not look amused by. (In fact, his eyes possess every emotion except amusement, the most present ones being fear and anger. Wooyoung has never seen Yeosang angry before. Sure, Yeosang had been annoyed by small things, but never angry.)

“Are you a mind-reader or something?” Wooyoung scoffs. He expects Yeosang to laugh alongside him, for his tension to ease down slightly, but a wave of silence seeps within the flower shop, overtaking the sound of Wooyoung’s scoff easily.

He swallows drily as his eyes meet the elder’s, pupils widening for a millisecond before brushing off his own statement as a lie. “This is a joke. It’s a joke… right?”

No response. “Yeosang, speak.”

Yeosang doesn’t. instead, he retrieves to the door of the staffroom, turning around to manoeuvre the handle, shoulders freezing when it clicks open, moving from its original spot to reveal their typical tedious, dull lunchroom.

One second passes. Yeosang _seems_ to regain the tiniest bit of courage – his determined face, however, is stained with the shade of fear and exposing his façade entirely – and he steps foot inside the room hesitantly. Wooyoung follows wordlessly, eyes fixated on the way Yeosang’s fingers hook themselves on the spine of a particular manuscript positioned on the second shelf towards the centre, without even looking, as if this were a book he either read a lot or _required_ a lot.

Yeosang himself is completely drowning in the sea of his own thoughts, fingers aimlessly brushing through a millennium’s worth of pages – it feels as if the book is never-ending, strokes of ink delicately occupying the antique pages incessantly – and Wooyoung stills simultaneously as the elder when Yeosang’s index prevents the previous page to fall on the one he paused at.

“Say something. Please.”

Yet nothing. Yeosang only swallows before handing the manuscript over to Wooyoung, the younger’s eyes falling upon distinctive old characters – Hanja – confusedly brushing over the columns of text without understanding the significance of each word.

“What does it say?” Wooyoung questions. “Yeosang?”

“Figure it out.” This is the only thing Yeosang says before officially stepping back and turning around fiercely, departing from the staffroom, his posture slumped.

The love potion simmers deeply within Wooyoung’s cardiovascular system, yet not even the solution within him can make him tell the elder to wait, to pause and to return to him. Mind vacant of any true explanations, Wooyoung just looks down at the manuscript with no real idea as to what it symbolises.

_Figure it out._

Never in his life has he seen Yeosang so quietly infuriated before.

(He doesn’t think he ever wants to see this sight again.)

By the time Wooyoung abandons the staffroom, mind still fulfilled with unanswered questions, the flower shop is vacant.

No sight of Yeosang’s navy coat, nor of the shop owner. Nothing but discarded vases of mustard toned orchids – which to Wooyoung, don’t even seem as vibrant as previously – and the rush of cold air oozing into his bloodstream infuriatingly slow, making him feel icy all over.

Yeosang never leaves his shop unsupervised.

Granted, Wooyoung was still inside the staffroom at the time the shop owner left, but regardless, Yeosang never leaves the flower shop before the end of the revised schedule. This only adds to Wooyoung’s undying sentiment of nervousness, his hand unconsciously clutching onto the spine of the manuscript tighter for a few moments.

Turning off the lights, Wooyoung releases a long sigh, silently shoving his palms into his coat in order to prevent himself from the unstopping ache within his chest. To him, it’s as if the love potion is currently taking control over all of his emotions (just as expected) yet instead of making him act lovesick and euphoric, it only shapes his goal of discovering what the manuscript truly holds.

_Yeosang._

Wooyoung revises the page whose corner is folded gingerly once more, attempting to memorise some of the characters he witnesses within each neatly written column. He then opens the translating app and proceeds to freehand draw the characters he reads first, pursing his lips amidst his long moment of concentration as his index finger finishes translating the strokes upon the digital device of the modern day.

_Orchids._

He freezes, eyes falling upon the yellow orchids directly opposite him, whispering the word over and over again. He finds another character, this one from a different column, holding his phone close to his eyesight and recreating the lines as neatly as he can.

_Memories._

Confused, but realising he would be since he didn’t translate each column chronologically, Wooyoung selects another word from the column on the furthest left, situated approximately on the lower half of the page.

_Frozen._

Mind utterly vague yet repeating those three words constantly, Wooyoung exits the flower shop and heads to his vehicle.

(He spends all night recreating the exact same strokes, this time in order.

Safe to say, the pen he’s holding to write each word in a notebook falls when he deciphers the whole sentence, eyes flickering with unshed tears.

_When he sets eyes on those orchids, the memories he has kept frozen will unravel, and he’ll remember you. Can you handle that?_

_No. No, I cannot._ )

He doesn’t go to the flower shop early in the morning.

There’s no ring of his doorbell throughout the afternoon.

His eyes shut sometime at four am with no sight of Yeosang in his apartment.

Somehow, that hurts more than his unrevealed love before the love potion.

  * -



Yeosang misses him.

He misses those sparkling eyes revealing the world’s wonders; he misses those honeyed cheeks flushed with an enthusiasm mirroring the rapid pulse of Yeosang’s heart whenever he sees the younger. He misses pushing the bouquets of flowers in the younger’s arms, ushering him outside as the younger tried to finish the sentence he was speaking.

Yeosang misses Wooyoung.

But then again, he understands. He figures that by now, Wooyoung has deciphered the meaning of the hidden note, and that he wants nothing to do with him. He’d use his mind reading skills to figure out what Wooyoung was thinking, yet Wooyoung is too far from him. Wooyoung is too far, and Yeosang’s heart wrenches in longing.

He's never been away from the younger for that long.

Time is nothing but an unfamiliar concept to him now, and he is unsure of how many days have truly passed. It seems like nothing but a routine now: getting up in the morning, eyes bleak and posture slumped from a lack of sleep, showering slowly and almost falling asleep from the relaxing jets of warm water, brushing his teeth and not bothering to rub his hand over the mirror covered in water vapour.

Everything is just a boring routine, and his movements are mechanical. Everything is tedious now, and he no longer has an adrenaline induced from the rush of seeing Wooyoung at the flower shop in the morning. He just sits at his counter, eats his breakfast in a silence that is _painful_ almost, and his eyes close to reveal imaginings of Wooyoung teasing him or him teasing Wooyoung, the younger’s pout leaving his heart into a jumbled composition of bitter honey.

He misses Wooyoung.

Yeosang later steps foot into his flower shop, the little space lacking the musk fragrance Wooyoung liked to adorn each day with no fail. The little space that is so familiar to him that he could circle it in his eyes and he wouldn’t stumble in any of the furniture appears to be lacking something – something that is Wooyoung.

Gone are the varieties of French pastries which Wooyoung knew that Yeosang loved, so he’d bring them to him every now and then when the florist would least expect it. Gone are the enamoured freckles of stardust which would follow the younger around without him knowing, the magical beings adoring him more and more every day.

Yeosang just finds himself lost and without no map to guide him, even though he by now knows the address to the younger’s home from memory.

He gives him space.

Somehow, this is not just the hardest decision he’s ever done, but one which he knows is _wrong_.

Days pass mellowly, and Yeosang finds himself closing the flower shop earlier than expected. His telephone doesn’t ring as much as it used to, and even when it does, he finds himself ignoring some of the calls.

The van is parked outside, probably collecting dust from the lack of use.

It's parked in its usual spot, just by the emerald trees still full of colour and life, as if nothing had changed... as if Wooyoung would return and he’d get out of the vehicle, giving him that same smile rivalling the brightness of the sun.

It's there, as it always had been, as if the inside of it was filled with roses, tiger lilies or hyacinths, and as if the echo of soft melodies would travel to Yeosang and bloom his face with a small smile.

Yeosang had never raised orchids in his flower shop.

He had been horribly frightened by the younger’s reaction to the sight of the orchids – had been horribly frightened of what he would think if he remembered everything. It was something he had avoided for so long, and now, as he blinked sorrowfully in the direction of the van, he cursed himself for it.

Yeosang had been scared.

But now, as he looks away from the van and closes the door of the flower shop carefully, he reckons he has never felt _this_ scared before.

Scared of losing Wooyoung. Scared of never seeing his doe-eyed expression again. Scared of never encountering the bright boy with a love for gaming and a secret love for cooking once more. Scared of always being a step too far from reaching the running figure, losing him forever.

Safe to say, Yeosang is mortified.

But when he turns around, he’s met by a constellation of stars (the Andromeda? The Sagitta, perhaps?) focusing its iridescent stars on nothing but _him._ As it always had. As _Wooyoung_ always had.

“Wooyoung.” he murmurs, voice trailing off into a whisper of the wind.

It’s silent for a moment, and Yeosang waits, bated breath and all, for _something. Anything._

Then it all comes back in a wave of the sea, tugging him towards the shore. “Yeosang.”

And finally, Yeosang feels serene again.

He opens up the flower shop slowly, and there it is. The musk wafts its way back into the little space, overwhelming Yeosang in the best way possible. It awakens the family of stardust hunched up in the corner, and despise the fragrance not being too strong, it appears to be the core of the flower shop, everything magical that Yeosang had always been so sure Wooyoung couldn’t see rising up at his presence.

Maybe Yeosang had been wrong. Maybe Wooyoung had always known.

And even if he hadn’t, the elements of Yeosang’s little space of love loved him regardless.

Just as Yeosang had. Just as he always _has_.

And when they sit down, Yeosang tells himself to be _truthful._ To not be like before, frightened of loss. He cannot bear with Wooyoung giving up on him – on his hesitance – and taking a step out of that door to never return.

So, he waits.

“I... I figured it out.” Wooyoung starts hesitantly. “You told me to figure it out so... I came back.”

Yeosang gulps, the reassurance of the phrase ‘ _I came back’_ melting his insides into sweet honeycombs, fragile to the touch. He is breathless, finding himself unable to look away from Yeosang, and at a loss of words. “You did...” he trails on, unsure of what would be the _right_ thing to say. (An explanation, perhaps. That seems like what Wooyoung wants. But he waits.)

“Listen, Yeosang, I-” Wooyoung stops himself from saying anything else, the rest of the sentence unknown to Yeosang. He's unsure of whether he wants it to stay that way.

A silence envelops the flower shop hungrily, splattering itself across each neatly painted wall with an angry snarl. Wooyoung’s eyes are unreadable, and so is his expression, and Yeosang can do nothing but _wait._ Wait for the reasonable anger and infuriation of the younger. He expects the resignation letter.

But it still hurts.

No matter how prepared he thinks he is, the sliding of the envelope across the table melds his heart into an unrepairable jigsaw.

“I remembered.” Wooyoung speaks.

His eyes beckon Yeosang to open the unlabelled envelope, and so he does. No matter how heart-breaking the process is, he does it regardless.

He can almost envision it. ‘ _I, Jung Wooyoung, will no longer be working at this flower shop. My stay has been a lovely experience, and I am now taking a step further, expanding my horizon. Thank you for everything.’_

But these words are not what’s printed on the paper.

“It’s not a resignation letter, Yeosang.” Wooyoung speaks in a crestfallen whisper.

Yeosang looks up with tearful eyes. “You remembered.”

“I did.” Wooyoung replies. “I always did, didn’t I?”

“Across multiple universes, your name is written everywhere. This…” he pointed to the manuscript the younger held gingerly within his hands, “this is from another Yeosang, and another Yeosang, each writing of yellow orchids and forbidden memories. Yet in this universe,” Yeosang spoke with a rawness so unlike himself, “in this universe, the orchids are red, and you’re the one writing. In this universe, in this tiny flower shop which can cross dimensions, you’re the author of your script. Not me.”

“They’ve never been red before...” Wooyoung drawls, yet his voice isn’t concerned. It's reminiscent, like he is _truly_ remembering the past. Or rather, the parallel universes.

Their story is not too complicated. It’s a love through the ages, two bound souls tied by the crimson string of destiny, binding them and their unrivalled love through several universes. Yeosang had always found out first, and somehow, his memories of this had remained, imprinted in his head and his heart for years to come.

When Wooyoung had stepped into his flower shop, innocuous and unknowing, his heart had leapt in his chest. _So, it had been true. The book his grandmother had given him which had mirrored the same memories he had explained everything._

Orchids. Memories. Frozen.

Even through the writing of old characters, Yeosang understood everything.

And he prevented himself from raising any type of orchids in fear of losing this bit of serenity, in this universe where he didn’t lose Wooyoung. Where he could build a friendship with him and avoid the orchids which had always made the younger leave. And yes, now he recognises that it had been a cowardly move, and he blames himself for it, but back then, it had seemed like the only plausible thing to do.

“I was so scared, Wooyoung. Scared of everything playing out like before, just a modernised cassette of the same sequence of events.” Yeosang confessed, his nervousness only growing at the sight of Wooyoung’s impassive expression.

Whether those eyes are pained or hateful, Yeosang cannot tell. Seeing Wooyoung’s face be so _blank,_ devoid of any emotion, is an entirely new concept to him. The younger never had a good poker face before. And that was just one of the million things Yeosang adored about Wooyoung: the way everything was so transparent with him. The way everything was so obvious since day one.

“Wooyoung. Say something. _Please.”_

And the three words were so familiar, except the plea had been reversed. And just as he had, Wooyoung doesn’t speak. But, unlike him, Wooyoung stays rooted in his spot. And then, his expression morphs into a thoughtful one. As if he’s contemplating whether he should continue staying or leave. As if he’s contemplating the amount of time he’ll stay.

Yeosang can’t read him anymore. And he’s so, _so_ scared of that.

“You should have told me.” Wooyoung’s voice comes out firm.

“I know. I know, Wooyoung, I should have told you-”

“But I understand, Yeosang. Ever since deciphering the meaning of the old characters, I _understood_ you. I understood your fright and your hidden love, I understood the reason that, whenever customers asked for orchids, I had to always say the shop didn’t have them, although I did not know why. I _know,_ Yeosang. I know.”

Wooyoung has always spoken with an unmistakeable hint of loyalty and determination, getting his point across immediately. Everything stopped to pay attention to _him_ and him _only,_ his words being imprinted in your brain no matter the occurrence. Everything in this shop loved him, from the stardust that now found its way onto his shoulder as it always had, all the way to the flowers photosynthesising unrushed, all now happy that he was back.

 _Everyone_ who stepped foot in the shop loved Wooyoung, because it was hard _not_ to. It didn’t matter who he spoke to. There was something regarding Wooyoung that enraptured everyone’s attention, their eyes turning loving at the sight of him. Everyone, including Yeosang.

Yet Yeosang believes he fell since a long time ago. He doesn’t just _believe_ this. He is fully aware of this, and has been from the moment he reached the age of twenty, little fragments of old memories morphing together in full flashbacks tainting his dreams.

He’s loved Wooyoung since he stepped in the flower shop for the first time.

Yet that doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel guilty for making Wooyoung find this out on his own. He should’ve aided him more – should’ve seen his first reaction, should’ve held his hand if he wanted to, or left him alone if he had asked to.

He ducks his head in regret, absorbing the younger’s words like a sponge taking in all the water it was given. And then. “I am so sorry, Wooyoung.” he murmurs.

“I know, Yeosang.”

“I’m so sorry.”

It only takes a comforting pat on the shoulder before a waterfall escapes his eyes.

Yeosang knows Wooyoung is loving. Has known since the first dream.

But he has never seen the true extent of that love, especially not directed at him.

They're at Wooyoung’s apartment a few weeks after the younger had returned at the flower shop. Nothing has changed (Wooyoung loved a set order to everything) but still, there’s a waft of something not _quite_ musk, yet not as dulcet as fruits.

_Vanilla._

If there’s something that changed, it’s not the set order of Wooyoung’s apartment. It's not the slant of the television plasma plastered in the centre of the wall, a reality show turned to a nice volume, not too loud nor too quiet. It's not the artificial plants occupying the house in random spots, either. (“ _I could never take care of real plants, Yeosang. You’re the one who has patience, not me.”)_ They’re the same old ones just resting near the medium sized window, or on the windowsill in the kitchen.

It’s this _vanilla,_ and Yeosang feels a smile tug at his lips at this newfound scent he’s always liked.

It’s familiar and loving, compassionate and subdued in its emotion, yet still captivating your attention fully. It’s Wooyoung, who comes from the kitchen with some snacks, trying his hardest not to trip on his way to the sofa.

A relaxed smile tugs at his lips when Wooyoung hands him a bag of his favourite snacks, and he opens it quickly. Wooyoung sits next to him, eyes growing wondrous as he pays attention to the reality TV show.

“My mother wasn’t a witch.”

Wooyoung stills behind him, turning to look at him with a questioning gaze. “What?”

“The love potion. It wasn’t made in the modern day.”

Wooyoung’s shoulders turn even more rigid than they already were. “Ah. The love potion.”

“ _Slip and Love_ was a family business. Back in the 1800s, the Kang family – my ancestors – sold potions on the market. They called themselves apothecaries, claiming these potions would bring you instant love and eternal happiness. Of course, they didn’t say the effects of the potions only lasted for a few days.”

It was evident Wooyoung’s attention only piqued, the younger looking at him with full interest. “Was your family.... magical or something? You didn’t deny the fact that you’re a mind reader.”

Yeosang takes a moment to ponder about this. Truthfully, he isn’t quite sure either, although there _is_ a plausible answer to this. “I think the mind reading doesn’t have to do with my _family_ history but with _our_ history. Mine and yours.”

“So, do you think we just evolved?” Wooyoung questions, but not condescendingly. He appears to deem it plausible too, because they _both_ remember. They remember a life before this one, and another one before the last.

“I think... I think the universe gifted me with this skill so we can decipher each other’s feelings quicker. However, I... I never used it on you.” Yeosang admits.

“Why?” Wooyoung asks. Again, his tone isn’t harsh. Yeosang thinks Wooyoung’s tone could never be too harsh. He was too considerate for his own good.

“It felt.... It felt wrong to do so. Instead, I just did what other people do: read your body language. You’re a very expressive person, my love. If you like something, your eyes get all happy and _wondrous._ Just like _...”_ Yeosang pokesWooyoung’s cheek gently, “just like now.”

Wooyoung splutters, his eyes not meeting Yeosang’s as he flushes. His hands grasp hold of Yeosang’s hips before pulling him in for a hug.

“I really like you, Yeosang.” He confesses, looking up at him shyly. “I’ve liked you in multiple worlds, you know?”

“Yes.” Yeosang confirms, voice gentle and slightly muffled by Wooyoung’s shoulder. “I know very well, Wooyoung.”

“There’s a lot of talking we have to do.” Wooyoung reminds him.

“That’s fine. I like talking to you.”

“But for now,” Wooyoung looks at him playfully, “I have a show I need to watch. And you have the responsibility of holding my hand.”

“Yes, sir.”

Yeosang might own a flower shop fulfilled of the world’s prettiest creations yet in his eyes, none of them can rival Wooyoung.

The stardust in the magical shop had been right about the younger. Wooyoung was honey: sweet on every surface, voice soft but sometimes raising in pitch in an endearing way and in one that defined _Wooyoung._ Wooyoung is _everything_ to Yeosang - prettier than any constellation and more vibrant than any flower growing delicately in his greenhouse.

Wooyoung, to Yeosang, is love itself.

A flower perhaps.

And Yeosang sits and admires him each night and every morning, watches fondly as the medallions arching the horizon reflect their superb iridescence on Wooyoung’s soft cheeks. He watches – utterly enamoured and eyes wide – Wooyoung dance in the warm setting on the flower shop, long after they had closed. Wooyoung is always so careful with the plants, giving them a generous intake of water without Yeosang having to remind him to.

Yeosang later tells him of how the shop possessed a magical hint to it. Of how it had derived from his grandmother’s first trial of making a love potion and ending up making a magic one. And Wooyoung, sharp eyes and all, confesses that he had known ever since taking the love potion. By now, he waves a goodbye to the flowers, an occasional giggle escaping his lips when he sees them bow abashedly in his direction.

Wooyoung is loving, and in return, he receives the uttermost love Yeosang could muster.

Yeosang might be shy, yet he never fails to kiss the younger’s cheeks to give him a serotonin boost or to encourage him to finish his reports. These days, Wooyoung is busy with his job at the gaming company (it’s almost the end of his internship and Wooyoung wants to excel and be promoted _already)_ and Yeosang does all he can to cheer up the younger whenever he’s stressed.

Sometimes, Wooyoung would let out a sigh, pushing the laptop aside and extending his arms out. And Yeosang, confident and unhurried, would envelop him in an embrace, smoothing Wooyoung’s hair and patting it gently. Wooyoung would let out a hum and they’d stay like this for what felt like millennia, but in reality, only was a couple of minutes.

“You’re my beloved,” Yeosang recites one night, Wooyoung stilling from where he sat on the sofa, eating popcorn whilst watching his favourite reality show. It gives Yeosang a sense of déjà vu, back to when he told Wooyoung the truth. It had been so long ago.

“You mean so much to me, Wooyoung.”

Wooyoung looks at him with heavy emotions seeping from his wondrous eyes, and then opens his arms. And Yeosang does what he usually does: embrace him. “I love you,” he murmurs.

“I love you too, darling.” Wooyoung replies back easily, voice filled with sincerity. “So, so much.”

**Author's Note:**

> i hope you enjoyed my loves!  
> thank you so much for reading,  
> have a wonderful week! ♡


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